


Roots

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Gen, Orphans, POV-Neal Caffrey, References Season 4 Episode “Identity Crisis”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Mozzie decides he wants to investigate his origins and Neal is worried for his friend. I tried to handle this poignant and delicate subject, which may pertain to many people in today’s world, with gentle tact and understanding. I hope you may read with an open heart.
Relationships: Neal Caffrey & Mozzie, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Roots

Mozzie is kicked back on my couch looking pensive. He has been unnaturally quiet for the entire time of his impromptu visit, and that is a very worrisome state of affairs for me.

“So, what’s with the deep contemplation, Moz?” I ask quietly.

He seems a bit startled as he looks up at me owlishly through his thick glasses. “Oh, just pondering my roots, or, more specifically, the lack of said roots.”

Unfortunately, this is not some weird flight of fancy on Mozzie’s part. Being an anonymous infant left on the doorstep of an orphanage has had a profound effect on my friend. It has left wounds that run deep, and many have yet to heal. I have sat through his poignant _Punch and Judy Show_ where he sought to provide his own answers. To come to terms with his abandonment, he made his long-lost parents heroes in the scenario—desperate undercover spies who left their son behind to protect him from harm. I really don’t know how to help Mozzie’s ongoing angst; I simply lack the words to make this situation better for him. Tonight is no different, so I merely refill his glass of Merlot and sit quietly by his side.

Finally, Mozzie sighs deeply and looks me in the eye. “I’ve decided to be proactive, Neal,” he begins to speak. “I may never know who my parents were, but at least with the current technology available, I can get a handle on where my family tree first began to sprout.”

I think I may know where this is going but I allow Moz to spool it out at his own pace, which he does a few seconds later. “There are companies out there who can take a sample of your DNA and tell you what part of the world your ancestors once inhabited. I’m thinking of getting one of their kits and starting that process of genealogical spelunking and ultimate discovery.”

“I can understand your curiosity, Moz,” I say slowly, “but I thought you wanted to remain off the grid. Do you really want to put your DNA out there?”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t submit it under my own name,” Mozzie says sarcastically. “If I go by something innocuous like John Smith, I can be practically a ghost. Did you know that there are over 45,000 John Smiths currently residing in the United States?”

“Yeah, I see your logic,” I say with a nod of my head. “You’d be a miniscule needle in a very big haystack.”

“Exactly!” Moz agrees.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mozzie didn’t revisit the subject for the next few weeks, so I thought perhaps he had second thoughts about his bold plan. However, one evening he again graces me with his presence and is waving around a piece of paper. “It came today—my genealogy results. Take a look.”

I scan the DNA profile and the accompanying pie chart which seemed to be taken up almost entirely by a section of the globe designated as Eastern European. Mozzie quickly points out that the predominant portion of people with a DNA sample like his were of Slavic origin and had originated from an area bordering the Baltic Sea. “That’s near St. Petersburg,” Mozzie says almost in awe. “Maybe one of my great, greats was a tsar in Old Russia, maybe even a Romanov.”

I look at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps I can picture you as a rugged Cossack riding the steppes on a sturdy white steed.”

“Get your geography straight, Neal,” Mozzie scolds. “The Cossacks were mostly indigenous to the southern reaches of the Russian Empire near the borders of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. My beginnings started to take root hundreds of miles away. My old stomping grounds were a place where ancient rulers like Peter the Great erected an Imperial Winter Palace way back in the early 1700s. Future progeny like Nicholas and Alexandra Romanov resided there, from time to time, and it’s still standing today and is the site of the world renowned Heritage Museum. Is it so hard to believe that I may be a descendant of one of their line?”

“I think the Bolsheviks put an end to their line during the October Revolution, Moz,” I say gently.

Mozzie pays no heed to my words. “I _could_ be related to a member of the Russian royal dynasty,” he insists on entertaining this fantasy.

“Okay,” I say slowly trying to pander to his delusion, “let’s go with the possibility that maybe you weren’t actually a blood relative, but perhaps one of your ancestors could have been a member of the Royal Court. If I recall my history accurately, Rasputin, the crazy deranged monk, was a frequent flyer and managed to completely hoodwink the Tsarina and convince her that he had mystical powers.”

“Why do you insist on raining on my parade?” Mozzie asks with an attitude.

“I’m sorry, Buddy,” I reply carefully. “I just think you should try to keep both feet on the ground and not let this tiny bit of information take over your life. Who you are today is the only thing that matters.”

“Don’t you get it, Neal?” Mozzie insists. “That’s the crux of the whole dilemma. I know who I am now, but I don’t know who was responsible for making me who I am!”

That’s a convoluted statement, but I do get it. However, knowing from whence you came is not all it’s cracked up to be. I know exactly who my mother and father were, and maybe it would have been kinder if I hadn’t been aware of my roots. If you remain ignorant of actual facts, you can build your own history any way you desire.

Mozzie had left in a snit when I refused to be as over the moon as he was, but he could never stay mad at me for long. One week later we were sharing a lunch in Brighton Beach, a piece of New York that was predominately Russian in nature. Moz arrives in a grey great coat and shiny black boots. A ushanka beaver hat with earflaps hugs his bald head. We settle ourselves at a table in a restaurant featuring authentic ethnic cuisine and mend our fences over bowls of borsht and blinis filled with caviar.

“I think I need to take it to the next level,” Mozzie muses thoughtfully.

“Meaning?” I ask hesitantly.

“Meaning that maybe I should step up my heritage game and reach out to see if I have any long-lost relatives out there,” he answers.

“You mean like another John Smith, or maybe I should say, Ivan Ivanov?” I tease.

“John Smith is a perfectly good name,” Mozzie objects. “Who knows—that may even be my real name, or it just may equate to another Ivan Ivanov who would welcome a desire to make contact.”

“Or maybe some second or third cousin who may be in dire need of a kidney from you,” I point out a pitfall.

“Life is always about taking chances,” Mozzie pouts.

“Moz, do you really want to step off this cliff and make yourself vulnerable?” I ask softly.

“Neal, you don’t know what it’s like—the not knowing and the lack of a connection to a family,” my little buddy confesses.

“You are connected to someone, Moz,” I argue. “You’re connected to me like a brother, so I’m your family.”

“No offense, Neal, but it’s not the same. I know you can’t understand any of this because you already know what you need to know—all the good, the bad, and the ugly. Maybe I deserve that knowledge as well.”

“Please, Moz, give this drastic step more thought,” is all I can come up with in the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

One week later, Peter is in my loft with a case file that needs tweaking. He notices the new addition to my tiny kitchenette. “What’s this huge contraption?” he asks curiously.

I sigh and fervently hope a succinct explanation will put this line of inquiry to rest. “It’s an antique Russian samovar,” I say casually.

“Huh,” Peter responds as he bends to take in all the fancy intricate details of the polished brass and enameled vessel. “I guess my next question is why is it here?” he wants to know.

Well, so much for quenching Peter’s curiosity. “Mozzie uses it to heat water to brew his tea.”

“A simple kettle won’t cut it for him?” Peter snarks.

When I don’t answer what I believe is a moot question, Peter gets suspicious. “Did he steal this monstrosity?”

“I don’t know where he got it,” is my brief answer.

“Okay, let’s play Twenty Questions,” my handler says because he won’t let this issue rest. He’s like a dog with a bone. “Let’s get back to why he has it, and don’t tell me it’s to heat water.”

“Your over-the-top suspicious nature can really be a buzzkill,” I snort. “There’s a reasonably innocent answer.”

Peter waits patiently with a skeptical look on his face and a “let’s fill in the blanks” expression.

“As you are already well aware,” I begin slowly, “Mozzie is an orphan with no idea of his pedigree or his past. Recently he got some genealogical results and it has led him down a rabbit hole. He’s convinced himself that he’s of Russian descent or, at least, his long ago relatives hailed from somewhere near St. Petersburg. Ergo, he has decided to eagerly embrace his new cultural heritage with a vengeance that is scary.”

Peter is smirking. “You know, I always pictured the little guy busting out of some petrified Pterodactyl egg at the Smithsonian.”

“Sometimes, Peter, you are not a very nice person and you lack a soul,” I say in disgust.

“So, you’re being serious?” Peter asks quizzically. “This really is a new thing?”

“Totally!” I emphasize. “I’m at my wit’s end and I’m seriously contemplating putting out an SOS distress call to Mr. Jeffries in Detroit. Maybe he can get Mozzie back on track.”

Peter takes a seat and his face actually softens. “All tactless kidding aside, I’m not some heartless ogre, Neal. I realize it must be hard for people like Mozzie to accept the fact that they may never be privy to an unknown past. They will probably always wonder who was responsible for creating their blue, green, or brown eyes. If they exhibit a latent talent like an ear for music or an athletic ability, they must long to know where it came from. Did a mother or a father have an allergy to feathers or dog hair or peanuts? Was there a history of some disease lurking in their genes? Did they have siblings who somehow got lost in the shuffle?”

“So, you do get it,” I say in amazement.

“Loud and clear,” Peter verifies before he continues to speak. “When I was going to college back in Upstate New York, I became a Big Brother for a while to some young boys in a group foster home. They were in the same boat as Mozzie. They had no information on their past. One actually confided to me that he felt like an empty husk of corn. Once you peeled away the outside leaves, there were no kernels inside. I never forgot that heartbreaking description.”

“I just don’t know how to help and that makes me feel inadequate,” I admit.

“Well, maybe I can do something,” Peter says thoughtfully. “The FBI has all kinds of national databases that I can access. As a favor, I can keep it on the downlow and Mozzie’s name never has to come up.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have exposed Mozzie’s Achilles Heel,” I say after the fact. “He has a right to his privacy.”

Peter shrugs. “I’m just putting it out there, Buddy, and you can extend my olive branch to your friend.”

“I’ll do that—maybe,” I waffle. 

~~~~~~~~~~

I never got that chance because Mozzie has been incommunicado for almost four weeks and I’m beginning to worry. I have contacted all of his under-the-radar friends and have come up empty handed. Nobody has seen him. I share my concerns about his disappearance with Peter, who magnanimously offers to put out a BOLO on my friend. “Peter, maybe you can be more helpful by checking with the surrounding police precincts to see if an unidentified bald man is languishing unclaimed in their morgue.”

“You’re really worried, aren’t you,” Peter says unnecessarily.

“Of course, I’m worried,” I quickly retort. “Mozzie is my friend, and he’s going through an identity crisis. He doesn’t have any family that will report him as a missing person, so that is beyond sad.”

“But he has you,” Peter says gently as he lays a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Let me put out a few feelers.”

Nothing pops up on Peter’s radar, but then one night the missing man blithely breezes into my loft looking none the worse for wear. “Where ya been, Moz?” I ask anxiously.

He gives a nonchalant shrug. “I decided to take a vacation from my life and all of its obsessions,” he explains patiently.

“For a whole month?” I ask incredulously.

“It entailed a long journey, Neal, in more ways than the obvious. I went to Tibet and meditated with a bhikkhu—that’s Sanskrit for an ordained Buddhist monk. I became one with the universe and asked that eternal question, _Who Am I?_ My wise lama shunted me in the direction of Buddha’s noble truth stating that all life is a form of suffering to find that out. He also encouraged the practice of Prajna. Just so you know, that means discernment, insight, wisdom and enlightenment.”

“So, does that mean that you still want enlightenment about your past?” I ask cautiously.

“Not really in quite such a concrete fashion,” Mozzie says mysteriously.

“Okay, I’m going to need a little more enlightenment myself,” I say.

Mozzie actually produces a beatific smile. “My interpretation is that I already know who I am in my heart, and I probably always have. I needed to realize that I am but a small pebble on the riverbank of life just like any other member of the human race, and I must suffer whatever life throws at me in order to evolve. Of course, having more definitive answers regarding my past would be icing on the cake, but completely unnecessary to embody a fulfilled presence in this grand scheme we call our karmic existence.

“That sounds very Zen,” I murmur cautiously.

“There’s more,” Mozzie says intriguingly. “I decided to start a bucket list. I have many amazing talents and a superior intellect, assets that belong in the gene pool. So, from this day forward, I’m going to be searching for the right woman to become my soulmate and to bear my child. I’ll start my own family, and my offspring will never have the least bit of doubt regarding who they are.”

I smile. “That sounds like an excellent plan to me, Moz. Uncle Neal has a nice ring to it. Go get ‘em, Tiger!”


End file.
